Good Omens belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. They're geniuses,
I'm borrowing. Hopefully neither of them will ever read this.
Disillusionment was Crowley's forte for some years. It never got too much recognition Down Below, but as Crowley firmly maintained that they were out of touch and thoroughly old-fashioned down there, he got a perverse pleasure from getting absolutely no positive recognition for his work. It was a question of artistry, after all. People were so much nastier when their dreams were gone and that made Crowley's job so very much easier. After all, if people did insist on being so nasty to each other, he couldn't be blamed for taking just a little time off for a glass of wine or a nap, now, could he?
But, convenient as that was, it wasn't really the point. The joy in it, as Crowley tried to explain, was picking slowly at someone's hopes, pulling a thread here, instilling a doubt there. When done properly, (and Crowley did anything worth doing properly) the pretty little castle in the sky collapsed so thoroughly that most people tried to forget it had ever existed. And from there the slide to hell was practically guaranteed by the stream of petty misdeeds individuals would think up in frustration.
The gradual disintegration was key, Crowley had decided, because then, looking back, they never did figure out when the collapse had begun, only a series of little slides. He sent down designs for termites and dry-rot based on the same principle, and threw in mildew as a bonus. Aziraphale promptly invented bleach, but hell was pleased nonetheless. None of this flash and bang sudden conversion nonsense for AJ Crowley: much too gaudy, and besides, that was Aziraphale's thing. Though, to be fair, the angel did seem reasonably embarrassed about the tackier moments: the burning bush, for example, or the "light at the end of the tunnel" that seemed to be all the rage these days. No, Crowley much preferred subtle artistic conversions, thank you very much.
That is, until he saw people doing it to each other. Aziraphale pointed it out to him at lunch one day, and after that Crowley saw it wherever he looked. At first, he was delighted--there seemed to be no end to what humans would inflict on each other. Rationally, calmly, they pointed out the flaws in each others' wishes and hopes, knocking on foundations and revealing the weaknesses inherent in building in the sky. The pettiness of it intrigued Crowley: this was what he'd been sowing all these years. Then he realized that this was all he'd been doing, all these years. Sure, he'd taken a break now and then to corrupt a priest or derail a county that seemed to be going the right direction. But such small-scale meanness, so petty it wasn't even really worthy of being called evil: this was all he'd accomplished, and who was to say people wouldn't have thought it up on their own?
This revelation, and the sudden spurt of self-loathing and almost-regret shocked him into an exceedingly bad mood, and he had to buy a large number of new plants for his flat the next day.
Aziraphale found him in the park later that week, morosely sinking ducks. He revived them absentmindedly with a chiding "really, my dear" and Crowley glared at him and slunk off, muttering to himself about interfering angels.
Aziraphale smiled as he watched Crowley leave. Sometimes, he reflected, sudden angelic revelations worked wonders.
Disillusionment was Crowley's forte for some years. It never got too much recognition Down Below, but as Crowley firmly maintained that they were out of touch and thoroughly old-fashioned down there, he got a perverse pleasure from getting absolutely no positive recognition for his work. It was a question of artistry, after all. People were so much nastier when their dreams were gone and that made Crowley's job so very much easier. After all, if people did insist on being so nasty to each other, he couldn't be blamed for taking just a little time off for a glass of wine or a nap, now, could he?
But, convenient as that was, it wasn't really the point. The joy in it, as Crowley tried to explain, was picking slowly at someone's hopes, pulling a thread here, instilling a doubt there. When done properly, (and Crowley did anything worth doing properly) the pretty little castle in the sky collapsed so thoroughly that most people tried to forget it had ever existed. And from there the slide to hell was practically guaranteed by the stream of petty misdeeds individuals would think up in frustration.
The gradual disintegration was key, Crowley had decided, because then, looking back, they never did figure out when the collapse had begun, only a series of little slides. He sent down designs for termites and dry-rot based on the same principle, and threw in mildew as a bonus. Aziraphale promptly invented bleach, but hell was pleased nonetheless. None of this flash and bang sudden conversion nonsense for AJ Crowley: much too gaudy, and besides, that was Aziraphale's thing. Though, to be fair, the angel did seem reasonably embarrassed about the tackier moments: the burning bush, for example, or the "light at the end of the tunnel" that seemed to be all the rage these days. No, Crowley much preferred subtle artistic conversions, thank you very much.
That is, until he saw people doing it to each other. Aziraphale pointed it out to him at lunch one day, and after that Crowley saw it wherever he looked. At first, he was delighted--there seemed to be no end to what humans would inflict on each other. Rationally, calmly, they pointed out the flaws in each others' wishes and hopes, knocking on foundations and revealing the weaknesses inherent in building in the sky. The pettiness of it intrigued Crowley: this was what he'd been sowing all these years. Then he realized that this was all he'd been doing, all these years. Sure, he'd taken a break now and then to corrupt a priest or derail a county that seemed to be going the right direction. But such small-scale meanness, so petty it wasn't even really worthy of being called evil: this was all he'd accomplished, and who was to say people wouldn't have thought it up on their own?
This revelation, and the sudden spurt of self-loathing and almost-regret shocked him into an exceedingly bad mood, and he had to buy a large number of new plants for his flat the next day.
Aziraphale found him in the park later that week, morosely sinking ducks. He revived them absentmindedly with a chiding "really, my dear" and Crowley glared at him and slunk off, muttering to himself about interfering angels.
Aziraphale smiled as he watched Crowley leave. Sometimes, he reflected, sudden angelic revelations worked wonders.